Revelations
by MissMallora
Summary: "She has night terrors. It relaxes her to sleep where I am, and as I am needed at my desk most nights, she's taken to sleeping in the armchair. An innocent notion, I assure you, King Robb."
1. Chapter 1

It had been a long day.

It had been such a long, exhausting day that it was all Robb Stark could do to walk in a straight line from his council to the tent harboring one of his best fighters. _His _best fighter was perhaps a misnomer for a title; the man was anything but his. An ally, yes. Married into the family in a matter of mere months. Wed to the most beautiful woman in the north. But certainly not Robb's bannerman, not on his own volition.

But he was loyal, Robb didn't doubt it. The man fought for Robb's cause valiantly, and for that his men would do the same. So the King in the North owed him a great deal already, his sister's situation notwithstanding.

He didn't know what to think about owing a cunning man such as Oberyn Martell so much as a silver stag.

It was a thought which plagued his mind constantly, the wondering what Prince Oberyn would ask for in return. The Martells had been good thus far, inserting themselves quietly into the affairs of the north, offering men to accompany their new princess' cause. And all which was asked for in payment was loyalty.

_That should a Martell come to seat the Iron Throne, you will support us in our reign. _

It seemed an easy enough exchange, though it was a perplexing one. For one the Martells were known to avoid politics of the other six kingdoms, and they kept very much to themselves. Had done so for years. For another, as far as Robb could tell—or any of his eyes and ears—there were no attempts by the Viper's greater family to overthrow the inbred bastards, nor to wed Arianne or one of her brothers to Tommen or Myrcella respectively. It was once a match, Robb knew, for Myrcella to wed Trystane, but that was long gone, and the boy, Quentyn's whereabouts were unknown to the Stark King.

For the most part there was little time to dwell on the matters of the far south. It didn't truly concern Robb at the present time, but also it wasn't his domain. He would vouch for any place the Martell family took, should they acquire the Iron Throne, but he had no intention of bleeding for them to get there. Whatever plots they had, let them keep it. So long as his men may go home one day soon.

But those thoughts weren't what sent him to the side of the Red Viper, nor did he plan on speaking them aloud any time soon. No, what Robb wanted was advice more than anything. He grew weary of the way his men eyed Jeyne Westerling, he grew weary of the way Jeyne eyed Greywind. And now he had isolated his mother, and his men were quick to judge, there were few in the vicinity who were truly qualified to give battle tactic advice, fewer still whom he was inclined to listen to at the moment.

The Red Viper had plenty of battle tactic to offer, he thought. Prince Doran would be better still, of course, but given the rumors (vague and insubstantial as they were) his health didn't allow him to travel so far, let alone outside of Dorne.

The tent Oberyn was given was a generous size, and divided into three compartments. The first, and largest, was to act as a writing space, where the Viper could draft and send letters, mull over tactics, read up on the climate of the north. He was, as was just stated, no Doran Martell, who Robb was told loved reading as well as any Maester could, but he was intelligent and devoted, and had a lot of free time on his hands as well. (There were very few brothels for miles in any direction).

The second room was his own room, and Robb couldn't say either way how it looked. He only knew his was the second because his wife's was last, and she had told Robb this herself. It was the last room, and farthest from the entrance. Short of killing the guards outside her end of the tent and cutting a hole in the heavy fabric where she slept, there would be no getting in or out of their tent without surpassing Oberyn Martell, and the man seemed very doubtful anyone would ever do either option.

He walked in without thinking, really, else he would have bat at the flap a few times out of courtesy. But of course, he was King, and he had the right to go where he pleased—short of another lady's bedroom, perhaps. It wasn't truly in his nature to simply enter without warning, at any given rate, but Robb was _quite _tired and his manners were deplorable when his mind turned to mush, such as it was then.

"Prince Oberyn, forgive me," Robb began, realizing only a second too late that he hadn't asked to enter. The man he sought out was at a makeshift desk, scrolls of parchment scattered about amongst ink and quills and wax and candles. The candles, he noted, were tucked away from the paper in an act of practicality. His wife's doing, Robb didn't doubt.

The man was seated with his side bare to the door, his left half on perfect display. He was dressed in northern clothes, unlike any Robb had seen him wear when he first arrived. Practicality had dictated that choice, too, he didn't doubt, since the Red Viper appeared to be very unwilling to part himself from his Dornish heritage. From the wine he brought, to the clothes he kept, to the weapons he wielded, the second prince was everything that resembled Dorne.

Robb wondered if Oberyn ever looked at _him _and saw the same thing of the north in him.

Oberyn didn't give any indication that he'd noticed the arrival of the King of the North for several minutes, finishing his letter meticulously. Robb didn't take his eyes off the man, and grew steadily more irritated and more unsettled. Oberyn was excellent at making someone feel as though they ought to be swallowed by the earth for the sake of everyone else, and he could do it without a single glance or word. The northern pride Starks were famous for ran through Robb's veins as well as it had done for any Lord of Winterfell, but at the moment he was feeling exceedingly childish as he waited his turn to speak.

At last, at long last, the Red Viper set aside his quill with hands stained with ink, and leaned back, allowing a low groan as he stretched and drew his arms overhead.

"Your Grace," he drawled, sounding quite bored. "Forgive me, I find it quite unbearable to write for long periods of time. It is easier if I can write unstopped til finished, then not again for a day or so." He rose to his feet with all the sensual elegance of a serpent, and walked to the table propped in the far corner, along the wall of the divider between his bedroom and the sitting room.

"Of course," Robb grumbled, and allowed himself the leisure of following the Prince of Dorne, wordlessly grabbing a spare wine goblet and holding it out for Oberyn to fill, as he was filling one for himself. "It has been a long day," said Robb, by means of explanation. Oberyn didn't chastise, but hummed in obnoxious sympathy, and rested a hipbone up against the table holding the wine. His hand swirled the sour red contemplatively, his gaze far away and inward at the same time.

"Might we sit down?" Robb tried not to sound as irritated as he felt, but he really was fatigued, and courtesy dictated Oberyn offer him a chair any second now.

But the Red Viper merely smiled wryly and shook his head. "Alas, my recliner is quite taken up by a greedy little wolf."

Robb wheeled around on his heel to look to the opposite corner of the room where, lo and behold, there _was _a cushioned recliner, big enough for a grown man to lay back comfortably on, and sprawled out daintily on her side was none other than Oberyn's young wife, Robb's eldest sister. Sansa Stark. _Martell, _he corrected himself quickly, though he was certain he'd never grow used to the sound of Martell replacing a Stark name.

_At least it is not Lannister, or Baratheon._

No sooner had Robb glimpsed his sister than he did turn away out of embarrassment and respect. She was fast asleep, yes, but she was wearing nothing but a shift, and her furs had slipped about her so her arms were uncovered and the curve of her hip was visible through the white linens.

"Gods!" Robb swiveled back around to cut Oberyn an angry glare. "You could have warned me," he hissed, although he _had _in fact entered without permission.

Oberyn chuckled good-naturedly. Robb knew well-enough to tell that it was an act, but it was a good one anyways. Were he even slightly younger and more naïve, he'd have been quite awestruck by the Red Viper and all his prowling glory. He very nearly was, anyways.

"She is fully clothed, and fast asleep. Your sister sleeps poorly enough that I don't wish to interrupt whatever slumber she might acquire, and I might remind you, you never knocked." Oberyn took a long drink of his glass and let out a satisfied sigh, tilting his head in consideration at his bride, Sansa Martell.

"It could have been any man who entered!" Robb continued, floored by his lack of consideration for Sansa's propriety. "They might have seen her…seen her…"

"Asleep? Without those stifling dresses? A lucky man, I assure you," the Red Viper dared to say it with a cheeky grin from over his goblet.

"You think my sister's honor a jape, my prince?"

Oberyn shook his head. "No. Do you think your bannermen likely to enter my quarters without permission, _Your Grace?" _Ah, there was that desire to be swallowed by the earth. Robb grimaced and hid it with a long sip of wine. He hadn't had the stomach for it before going to war, but after his father was…_executed, _it was sometimes the only thing which could help put him to sleep.

"I do not. But in event of emergency—"

"In event of emergency, he or she could leave a message with my attendant, who could come to find me thereafter. As I'm sure Daemon told _you_. So tell me, King of the North, what is it that brings you to my tent? Other than concern for your sister's…_propriety."_

Truly flustered, Robb fought for the upper hand by stalling. He looked over his shoulder once more to the woman reclined in the long seat and frowned pensively. Oberyn had been watching his line of sight and, on seeing his frown, spoke up.

"She has night terrors. I trust I needn't tell you what of." Robb shook his head, guilt threatening to consume him once more. Too long. He had left his sister in the clutches of the Lannisters for far too long and it ate at him like a flesh-eating insect. "It relaxes her to sleep where I am, and as I am needed at my desk most nights, she's taken to sleeping in the armchair. An innocent notion, I assure you."

"I know." And Robb did, despite the Viper's reputation, trust that he was telling the truth. Save for the initial bedding, Sansa had not been taken in bed (or anywhere else) by Oberyn since. Only once to make the marriage irrefutable. The gesture of trust, innate and profound, made Robb think deeply before speaking his next thoughts aloud. "Does she have trouble sleeping even when you are…present?"

"Sometimes," he shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "She'll live. And she won't come to any further harm. That is all that truly matters; her terrors can be dealt with on a nightly basis, if need be."

"Forever?"

"You do not mean to suggest I would put your sister aside, do you?" Oberyn, as usual, didn't look offended in the slightest, but there is a mild affront to his tone that tells Robb to tread lightly.

"No," said Robb, suitably chastised. Gods, he did hate talking to the Viper most days. His _good-brother, _of all things. He could have never predicted such a turn in his life. Then again, he couldn't have predicted many things which had occurred in his recent past, Oberyn's involvement least of all.

The conversation was halted when, without warning, a tiny cry rose up in the tent, mewling and plaintive. It took Robb a second to place the source; it took Oberyn no time whatsoever.

The man was speaking lowly before he'd even reached Sansa's side. "There now, lovely girl. Shh…" Robb's eyes averted quickly, not before he caught sight of long, dark hands reaching down to gently stroke his sister's shining forehead, to bend his mouth to her temple.

"Oberyn…" Sansa murmured, loud enough to Robb to hear with some difficulty. She either kept her eyes closed or she couldn't see him due to Oberyn's close proximity to her. "O…"

"I'm here," he began stroking her hair. It was unnaturally addicting to watch, though it was as uncomfortable as it was reassuring. Robb had worried, between everything else, that Sansa was left in unsafe hands even now, after being put through so much. She had promised him repeatedly that her husband treated her well, and she would hear nothing of settlements or attempts to dissolve the union. In fact, the one time he'd tried, she had gone running to Oberyn at once. To which the Prince of Dorne had kindly but firmly set him straight, and requested that the pair be left alone in their marriage.

"I was not the man you envisioned as your good-brother," Oberyn had said somberly. "But I am who you have, nonetheless. For so long as she wants me."

Robb hadn't tried since.

It was clear now that Sansa had told the truth when she said she was happy with Oberyn. Strange that he should find reassurance in her night terrors… But there was no mistaking the way she sleepily reached out for Oberyn, the way she relaxed and softened under his presence.

"What are you doing waking up so late, hmm? My little wolf." Oberyn pressed a kiss to her head. "Do you wish to sleep in your bed? Sansa?"

"Hmm…no…" she yawned, and curled tightly around the hand he'd offered her, drawing it into her chest like a child holds a favored toy. "Stay."

"Unfortunately I have need of that hand," Oberyn replied, voice ringed heavily with amusement. The tone was lost on her, though, and she didn't so much as twitch at his words. "You are welcome to use them any way you please when I've finished."

Well, that was something Robb rather wished he could unhear.

Carefully now, the Viper of Dorne untangled his hands and drew back his limbs, sliding back into an upright position. Sansa was at peace once more, her face sweetly relaxed and pretty as a portrait. Gratitude and admiration seeped into Robb's heart, though he half-wished it would not. Owing the Viper… No, that was not a thing he took pleasure in at all. But perhaps for the sake of Sansa, he would accept it. Accept that the Prince of Dorne had done what he could not (_what he had chosen not) _to do. That he had saved Sansa before it was truly too late.

Words of thanks were on his lips, _thank you _and a good night because Robb realized he very well may be too tired for this conversation, and maybe it could wait until the morning. But when the man turned to face Robb, Oberyn spoke without any preamble, confident and assured and very much alert.

"Now then," Oberyn said, head tilted in plain deferral. "What did you have to ask me, Your Grace?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa Stark was never a scatter-brained child. Sweet and innocent, perhaps, but never one to wander in her lessons, not even in her mind. She had dreams, but of course she did. But she was also a singularly focused child, and quite accomplished when she chose to be.

So it was downright startling when she showed up for her breakfast with Catelyn and the other ladies nearly forty minutes overdue.

"Forgive me, Mother," Sansa said, out of breath at the door to her solar. Since reaching Riverrun, Catelyn had reclaimed her old chambers, and frequently hosted her son's new wife, formerly Jeyne Westerling, as well as Jeyne's mother. Catelyn, for the record, was about as fond of her son's new wife as she was his good-mother, and spending lengthy periods of time with either, although bearable, was unpleasant to put it mildly. And so she did look very forward to Sansa being there—_not at all_ for the fact that Sansa seemingly felt distrust of both Westerling women. No, not at all. Such would be petty and ought to be discouraged at once.

At any rate, Catelyn was surprised at her daughter's late arrival, for the sake that she was always properly on time, if nothing else.

"Lady Westerling, Your Grace," Sansa nodded to each woman, curtseyed to their _queen. _Catelyn barely fought back the grimace each time decorum required her to greet Jeyne as anything more than the up-jumped lady she was.

"Sweet sister, how many times have I begged you call me Jeyne?" Robb's wife rose to her feet, smiling beautifully at Catelyn's daughter. Two hands outstretched for Sansa, Jeyne's fine-boned fingers, and curled around her wrists lightly. Most had learned since Sansa's return north not to embrace her, even in private. Not even Catelyn could hold her without giving Sansa proper warning anymore.

"You are my queen," Sansa returned the smile stiffly and discreetly pulled herself out of Jeyne's clutches. "I fear you may have to ask once more."

"Princess Sansa," Lady Westerling said regally. The woman, at least, knew her place around Catelyn's daughter, even if she didn't know so around Cat herself. Lady Westerling frequently forgot whether she or her daughter was Queen in the North, and worse still forgot who was _not. _

"Please forgive my lateness," Sansa took her turn nodding at each of them, settling in her chair. Brienne, having opened the door for Sansa, let it swing shut gently once more, nodding politely at Catelyn as she did. "I fear I retired late last night, and such kept me in bed late this morning."

"Of course, Princess."

"There's no need to apologize, sister." Sansa pretended not to notice the kind endearments, smiled gratefully at them both, and turned quietly to her meal, an assortment of fresh bread and honey and milk and nuts and fruits.

Meanwhile Catelyn fought the urge to narrow her eyes in suspicion on her daughter, for even though the night's festivities drew out late, she could have sworn Sansa herself retired early—with her _husband _no less.

_Hardly her husband. Her sworn sword, more accurately. _She told herself that whenever thoughts of her daughter's husband came to mind. In all technicality, Oberyn Martell was Sansa's lawfully wedded husband, and she his wedded and bedded wife. But it had only been the once, she told herself over and over. Only the once, and really how bad could that have been? He seemed kind. He seemed likely to try and make it…_end _quickly. He—

Gods, she couldn't bear thinking about this. Even trying to reassure herself of her daughter's innocence made her feel ill.

_My girl. My sweet girl. _

But she never should have been put in such a mess. None of them should have, not Robb being forced to take over as king, not Sansa being engaged to that _wretched _bastard boy—and now her three younger children were missing, or dead. And her Ned, her sweet Ned, he was gone too.

None of it should have happened.

_It was going south. No Stark belongs in the south. _

But south was exactly where Sansa was to go as soon as this war came to an end, and it was already nearing the end. The False King had fallen, the south was in anarchy. Lannisters were dying and the Martells seemed particularly careful not to be caught in any alliance but with the Starks, who held no power in the south anyways. Whispers of Doran Martell's sons venturing east reached her ears in nervous, twittering voices.

What business did the heirs of Dorne have in Essos anyways?

If Robb questioned it as much as Catelyn did, he kept those thoughts away from her ears. She didn't begrudge her son keeping his mind to himself. She had her own private thoughts, after all.

Husband of her daughter or not, Oberyn had rescued her when no one else was able, and for that Catelyn could only be grateful. _Outwardly_, that is.

She kept her other thoughts strictly to herself. Even when Robb stormed in, raging about a man older than their father wedding his younger sister—she had held her tongue.

But the thought of sending Sansa south again, even if it was in the _distant_ future, was nearly enough to make Catelyn weep and beg Oberyn Martell not to take her from him. Did he not keep a good number of lovers in Dorne? Did he not keep a _paramour _who carried all his bastards for him anymore? Catelyn hadn't bothered to learn the woman's name, but she knew she existed all the same. What did he need Sansa for anyways?

But Sansa was _married _to him! _Gods, _how could fate be so cruel? Wedded and bedded and married to a man with no fewer than eight daughters, all bastards, and more lovers than Robert Baratheon and Walder Frey combined. She had asked Sansa about it a few times, in tactful, considerate words, but Sansa was stiff-lipped about the matter.

"I will be a good wife and do my duty by my lord husband."

Gods. What a mess.

They ate in peace for the rest of the morning, with Jeyne and her mother making friendly, pointless conversation. Catelyn tried not to envision the amount of more important tasks she could be accomplishing instead. And all the while, Sansa picked at her plate, chewed in silence, and smiled when appropriate.

But though she sat still and calm for the duration of their meal, Catelyn watched the skin of Sansa's flushed face and neck remain red, watched her chest rise and fall and her teeth gently bite down on her lower lip whenever she fell out of conversation for too long, staring blankly at her plate.

"Sansa?" Catelyn leaned in and placed a careful hand on her daughter's wrist. "Are you well?"

She looked up at her mother, startled, eyes wide with confusion. "Of course! Forgive me, I just… I feel rather out of sorts. I believe I overslept."

"I know exactly what you mean," Jeyne leaned in with an understanding smile, and began to ramble on about how like-minded the two girls were. In truth, Catelyn had never met a woman less like her daughter than Jeyne Westerling. Or _Stark, _as her son now insists.

It doesn't matter what name she takes. That woman will always be a southron woman—Catelyn would know.

As Jeyne talked on and her mother scolded her for being so free in her words, Catelyn took the time to study Sansa's complexion further. Now that she looked harder, she _saw _things, things no one else would bother to take the time to find.

Like the way Sansa's fingers constantly traced her own skin, winding invisible maps over her veins, as though reimagining a route explored by other hands. Like the way she smiled ever so faintly when she thought no one was looking. Like the way she stared out the window in the direction of the training yard below.

Like the fading bloom of purple flower petals in her pale skin, tucked carefully under Sansa's ear.

Catelyn's heart stuttered and stopped without pause, nothing but white noise filling the sounds in her ears. It was all so familiar to her, this young red-haired woman sitting and dining on such a lovely morning. It was so familiar, not like an old image, but like an old memory.

And it all became clear to her in a matter of seconds.

_It was her. _When Catelyn looked at Sansa, it was herself she saw in the dark green morning dress. It was herself she saw in the subtly pleased smile, herself she saw in the improperly late arrival to breakfast.

A far-off memory came to mind without her trying to find it, the memory of a still-new Lady sitting at the table in the Great Hall of Winterfell, laughing at the most bland of jokes and smiling at every little thing the Lord of the House—_her husband—_said. Gods, it was so long ago—sometime after she had accepted Ned back into her bed, after _Jon Snow _came to their home. And Ned had been so sorry, so deeply apologetic, so eager to make it up to her. They had gotten terribly inebriated, drunk off of northern wine and new pangs of love, and Ned had asked if he could give her another child.

_Let me love you, Cat. The way you deserve. I've only ever loved you, lovely girl. Only ever wanted you. Only you._

And she said yes. And they spent the whole evening tumbling off the featherbed, onto the thick bear fur on the floor, against the trunk full of her gowns, propped up by the windowsill overlooking the empty courtyard. And in the morning, they came down later for breakfast, too happy to care.

And then…well… And then Sansa was born nine months later.

_But it couldn't be. _Catelyn reminded herself of the hushed conversation she'd had with her daughter, what, four months ago?

"I haven't… Oberyn and I have not…_shared _each other, since my wedding." Sansa had confessed it with a blush red enough to rival her own hair color, and though it was awkward and unseemly for a mother and daughter to discuss, Catelyn had been too relieved to feel discomfort.

Now, though, a year after her daughter had been wed to the Prince of Dorne…. Now she wasn't so sure.

The breakfast finished in a slow, winding sort of fashion, with the ladies saying goodbye and thank you and then spending another fifteen minutes complimenting one another. Sometimes it was very tiring being a Lady.

They had only just made their way to the door when it opened without warning, and a smiling Blackfish strode through. Her uncle, beloved and dear, was particularly upbeat this morning, and Catelyn wondered if there might be something in the water causing them all to lose their senses.

"Good morning, nieces. Your Grace. My lady." He nodded to the women in turn, all smiling back at him with varying degrees of happiness.

Sansa, Catelyn saw in her peripheral, was standing towards the back, hands laced in front of her, gazing intermittently between the window overlooking the yard, and the uncle of her mother.

"Uncle," greeted Cat with some surprise. "I thought you might be training this morning."

"And I thought you might be down there watching!" he laughed, grey whiskers curling on his mouth. "Didn't think you would want to miss your King making a fool of himself!"

Jeyne gasped, and Catelyn's brow furrowed in disapproval. "Whatever the King has done, Uncle, I don't believe it warrants such unfavorable language."

Brynden interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "Your _King _has challenged his good-brother to a spar."

Only decades of mastering ladylike behavior spared Catelyn the embarrassment of her jaw dropping to the floor, and even still her lips did part with a tiny pop of shock. Maybe there truly was something in the water...

Everyone turned on their heels to look at Sansa, almost reflexively, who seemingly didn't understand what was said for several seconds. And then—

_"He did what?"_

And then, before Brynden Tully could answer either way, she was hitching up the hem of her skirts and dashing out of the room, her mother close on her heels.

Sansa and Catelyn strode briskly down the halls for several minutes, unfollowed it would seem, before Catelyn spoke up, trying not to pant.

"It will be…a good…learning experience…I suppose."

Sansa's tense mouth didn't falter. "Robb is too proud to concede defeat." They rounded the last corner sharply, and came to the doors of the courtyard. "Oberyn will beat him black and blue before he relents." She was so factual about her assessment, it was very difficult to argue with her.

"He won't actually wound Robb, though." Catelyn looked at the profile of her daughter's fine face, saw the purple bruise under her daughter's jaw and soured at the sight of it. "He can't."

"Well, Mother, that's the thing." Sansa sighed, leading her to the crowd of young men and giggling ladies cheering at the fences, obscuring the two men fighting from their view.

"He _can."_

* * *

The fight was both short and predictable. Brynden and Jeyne had joined them for the tail end of it, and in truth Catelyn wishes she had seen the same.

Robb was utterly and totally decimated.

But Oberyn was a good teacher, and stayed level-headed throughout the ordeal, despite the rowdiness of their audience. Many of the men cheered wildly for their king at first, until they saw how unskilled he was compared to the Red Viper, at which point they stopped cheering and began grumbling, wincing, muttering oaths once in a while. Catelyn had watched from between her fingers, palms cupped to her cheeks. Sansa had watched it in silence, hands folded calmly in front of her, gaze fixated on the leaping, twisting images of her brother and her husband, battling for the upperhand.

Catelyn could make out a good deal of what was being said, the advice that Oberyn gave her son, and she quickly realized it was less a spar and more a lesson.

Her fear turned into fast relief, and maybe even gratitude.

"You glance at me wherever you plan to strike next. This is very foolish." Oberyn batted away the next two strikes of Robb's sword with little more than a flick of his spearhead.

"Don't dodge a foot away when an inch will do. You'll only tire easier."

Oberyn's spear struck suddenly, and caught Robb on the wrist unused. Uncaringly, her son continued fighting, but Oberyn made a tutting noise.

"If I had struck any lower, you would have bled your lifeblood by now."

Robb didn't respond vocally, but took care to tuck his arms closer to his side.

It ended—at last—when Oberyn had apparently decided he'd had enough, and with one sweeping motion, he knocked the King in the North on his backside, and lowered the head of his spear to Robb's jugular.

"Yield."

Robb did just that.

Brynden Tully made a sound torn between amusement and pity, and began shooing the crowd before either man had even left the ring. "Don't you lot have jobs to do?" he bellowed, and they scurried accordingly, under the threat of the Blackfish's wrath.

"Robb's a good lad, Cat. He'll be fine. Only his pride's hurt, that's all." Her uncle grinned and patted her hand kindly, before taking off to presumably commence with his own duties. Jeyne moved quickly to her husband's side, the young man who was walking with a tall, proud spine but a rather sheepish droop of his shoulders. She took his arm, and together they walked in the direction of the woods, Greywind trotting a distance after them.

It wasn't until they vanished from sight that Catelyn realized she had been left alone, save for Brienne.

"Shall I escort you to the castle, my lady?"

Catelyn smiled politely at the fierce woman and shook her head. "No, thank you, Brienne. I believe a bit of air might do me good." _Might do us all good._

She watched the great form of her sworn shield disappear as well, until she was well and truly alone. The yard was oddly calm now, a soothing place where Catelyn might drag her feet and think for a few minutes of respite.

That was, of course, until she heard the low chatter of a prince around the corner of the armory.

"—worried you might be unhappy with me, agreeing to fight him."

"No." A sigh. "I wish you had maybe told me what you were doing, but I am not angry."

Catelyn, as curious as any mother with a new good-son to deal with, crept close to the wall of the armory, and dared to poke just the corner of her eye around the edge to peak at the couple standing hand in hand, staring out at the cold sun.

Oberyn's back was mostly to Catelyn, but she could see most of Sansa's face. Her daughter was unusually…calm. Serene. Absurdly content with her hand entwined in the fist of the Red Viper's.

"Your brother was irritated, fidgety. A wolf trapped in a cage, waiting for all this"—Oberyn waved an airy hand through the air—"political nonsense to go away. A sentiment I share whole-heartedly." He turned to Sansa suddenly, his face grave. "It may surprise you to know this, Princess, but I am not a patient man."

To Catelyn's eternal surprise, Sansa dared to crack a dry smile at her husband. "Oh? I hadn't noticed."

Oberyn made an outraged sound and released her hand, leapt around to face her with a bold finger raised in the air, pointed at her. "Are you mocking me? I'll have you know, wife, I won't stand for being mocked."

"_Mocking_ you? No, never! Teasing?" Sansa grinned coquettishly from under her lashes, blushed and looked away. "Mayhap a little…"

"Teasing your Lord Husband?" Oberyn chided her, and received a gentle swat on the arm for it, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on Sansa's beautiful face. Ever since Oberyn had brought her back to the north, Sansa's beauty had been that of a sad sort, a tragic sort, and Catelyn thought it would be that way forever.

But here she was, _playing _with her husband, poking at his ribs and teasing his poor patience, and Catelyn thought it might be a happy beauty in the end, after all.

"What will you do now, the rest of the day?" Sansa asked, stepping closer to him still. He didn't speak, but looked down on her and wiggled his eyebrows alluringly, the jest as plain to read from across the courtyard as it was standing in front of him.

"None of that," said Sansa with a sharp bite. "I was late for breakfast because of you, you know. No doubt, my mother will have her share of questions to ask."

"And you would blame me for that?" Oberyn made an affronted sound. "I don't recall _forcing _you to stay in bed this morning, wrapped up under the sheets—"

Sansa squealed loudly as he wrapped her in his arms, hushing him urgently. "Oberyn, stop! Someone could hear you!"

Catelyn ducked just in time, as Oberyn's eyes scoured the empty land around them.

_"Who? The chickens in the barn?" _He laughed, and Catelyn dared to take another look at them. Sansa had not removed herself from his hold entirely, but did stand an arm's length away, his hands curled gently over her hips.

"Didn't you say something about catching up on your letters today?" Sansa tilted her head at him, and her husband groaned loudly like a boy.

"Gods, I don't wish to spend the afternoon writing. Not again." He made a sound of immense disgust. "My family knows I'm in your family's house. That's good enough, surely?"

Sansa frowned at him now, truly unimpressed. "What about Ellaria? You've neglected her letter for so long now—don't think I haven't noticed."

"Neglect is such a strong word, little wife." Oberyn huffed loudly, and released her with a flourish. "Besides, writing Ellaria is so tiring anymore. Ever since she met you, all she wants to do is know how you are doing. The sort of woman you've become."

"My letters to her aren't enough to tell her?" Sansa asked through a deep red flush and a timid smile.

"Don't jape. Your letters aren't enough to do anything but report the facts and pleasantries. There's nothing fun for Ellaria in that. No, she wants to know _you. _How you wear your hair, what you smell like, how the men respond to you. Where you like to be _kissed_."

Catelyn, blushing heavily herself, slowly clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with shock and a touch of dismay. This…was not the marriage she'd envisioned for her daughter.

And it was not how she thought Sansa would find happiness, either.

"Oh?"

Oberyn made a long-suffering noise. "Yes. My lover has become infatuated with my wife, and my wife loves my paramour. I shall have to spend the rest of my life admiring the beauty of two fiery, passionate women from afar."

"From afar?!" Sansa laughed loudly. "We'll be living in _your home._" The sound of her laughter sent a wave of excitement through Catelyn's veins. How long was it since she last heard her daughter laugh, since she had last seen her smile like this? Too long. Far too long.

"And I will be nothing but the cock to you two. I know how it is."

"Oberyn!" But she was still laughing. "You're being very wicked."

He hummed considerately. "Perhaps. You bring it out in me, darling wolf."

"Hmm…" Sansa reached out and took the folds of the neck of his sweaty tunic in hand, tugged him closer with careful movements. "What else does Ellaria write about?"

"Just you," he murmured back to her. Catelyn had to strain to hear. "It's all we talk about."

"Oh." Sansa's smile was so very pleased, like the cat that swallowed the canary whole.

"And…" Oberyn faltered momentarily. "She asks…if we will bring back a child with us, when we return."

Sansa's eyes were no longer skittish, but fixated, focused on his. They were not touching, but something in their bodies angled towards each other, turning inward, closing off from the world.

"She asked me as well." Sansa swallowed heavily, smoothed her skirts with shaking hands. "I didn't tell her."

"Nor I." He took two steps forward, and cupped her jaw in his weathered hands. Catelyn imagined his thumb cradled the exact spot his mark was, and wondered if he did it on purpose.

Their heads bent very close together, nose to nose, and over the crunch of gravel sliding slowly under their feet, Catelyn heard him whisper her name. "Sansa?"

And her daughter, the woman who was a lady at three, took his warm face in her own hands, and stretched up to kiss him tenderly, with a sort of care that made Catelyn breathless.

"Oberyn." Sansa glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the barn, where there were cows and chickens. And plenty of haystacks to hide in. "I don't suppose the chickens would tell anyone?"

He gave a whoop of laughter, scooped her up between fast, furious kisses, and began marching in the direction of the barn.

And Catelyn left them then, turned away with wringing hands and a bowed head, deep in thought. The sound of her daughter's laughter echoed over the courtyard, a sound she had missed almost as much as she missed her husband, headed into a barn to—to—

_Gods._

The similarities to her's and Sansa's marriage were numerous. And though their husbands were different, perhaps the love was the same.

Catelyn quietly took a large measure of comfort in that.


	3. Chapter 3

It would be all too easy for Sansa to hate Ellaria Sand.

Ellaria is the paramour of Oberyn Martell, so proclaimed by the man himself (although nowadays, the statement is regularly preceded or followed with _and this is my beautiful wife, Sansa Martell_). She's a dark beauty, the sort Sansa had never so much as imagined until venturing south at her young age. It was there at court where she was introduced to a whole new world of beauty—both of shallow and profound natures—and though she can hardly be called the most beautiful woman in the world _objectively, _there's no one else who comes to Sansa's mind.

Yes, between her beauty and the deep love she and Sansa's husband share, it would be so simple to hate the woman for even existing. But in all truth, the thought to hate Ellaria never crossed her mind. There was fear, of course; fear that Sansa would discover jealousy festering in her heart one day, as though it were a diseased limb, fear that Oberyn would choose Ellaria over her. But the fear never reached actuality. Oberyn has never made loving Ellaria and loving Sansa feel like a choice between the two, and Sansa has never looked at Ellaria and Oberyn and felt so much as dissatisfied.

How could she feel such things as jealousy and hate for a woman she loves so dearly?

It's a secret she keeps closely guarded to her chest when in the north, and it's easy to do. Ellaria isn't with her and Oberyn, there is no mention made of the woman other than by Oberyn himself when the pair are alone in bed. Though she hates concealing anything from her family—let alone a whole other person, one Sansa loves very much—she knows better than to imagine her mother and brother trying to wrap their heads around the fact that not only does her husband have a paramour waiting for _him, _but Sansa has one waiting for herself as well.

She blushes at the thought. She'd never called Ellaria her _paramour _before (such things simply aren't done) but the thought of calling her such things make her long for the ship to reach the shore even faster. Of course, she'd already been praying for the ship to dock _before _thinking of Ellaria, but with her mother's stomach restless and queasy aboard a swaying ship all day, there is little else in the world Sansa would like other than the comfort of her husband's home and her husband's lover.

It has been close to three years since she last saw Ellaria, but it's hard to get the impression of the woman out of her mind. Not to mention the ubiquitous amount of letter exchanged between the two women. It's likely Ellaria won't have changed at all in the time apart, but Sansa has grown and _become. _She's no longer the girl of sixteen, held tight in the Lannisters' clutches. She's not the starry-eyed girl who found Ellaria wandering curiously in the godswood one morning. She's not the girl who put Ellaria on a pedestal, listening to her every word, in awe of her freedom, her beauty, her bravery. She's not the helpless romantic who got drunk off of two cups of red wine and then tried to kiss the beautiful woman senseless.

She's not _that girl _anymore, but she's as in love with Ellaria today as she was more than two and a half years ago.

"My love," calls a familiar, crooning voice. "Come away from the ledge, else you'll be swept away."

"You worry too much," Sansa says with a knowing sigh, but backs away as asked. "I should go find my mother, I suppose. Do you know where she's gotten to?"

"I believe your brother had a marvellous tantrum this morning, and she's been trying to calm him ever since." Oberyn walked over to her and took her into his arms. There were many others on deck that morning, but none paid the couple much mind. "What is it that has your eyes smiling like this, sweet wife?"

"My eyes are smiling?"

He grins at her, and nods solemnly. "Yes. Here"—he traces a fingertip along the laugh lines at the corner of one eye—"and here." He does the same with her other eye, and though she doesn't like the reminder of wrinkles and such, it's the gesture behind the words that makes her flushed with love and sentimentality.

He has always been able to see through her armor, see her true self. Her misery, her anger, her happiness; it was all laid bare for him to witness.

"I was just thinking," Sansa says, a touch wistfully, and Oberyn smiles knowingly.

"We will be among my people soon. Does that excite you?"

"It does. It…also makes me nervous. I…want them to like me, you see…"

Oberyn's smile turns reassuring. "They will _adore _you." He raises his eyebrows suggestively at her. "Do you wish to see _any one _in particular?"

"Me? Whoever do you mean?" Sansa asks with a bat of her eyelashes and a coy tilt of her head.

"Fine!" Oberyn laughs. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But know this, wife: I have _seen_ you in bed."

He's leaned in close to her ear, his breath hot on her neck—almost as hot as the sweltering sunlight overhead. She frowns slightly, because that's no secret, not one she's ashamed of anyways.

"Yes? And?"

He chuckles lowly. She's pulled nearly flush against his chest, the swell of her belly rubbing against his own lean, hard body. He cups the back of her head in one hand to hold her close, and steadies the small of her back with his other. "I have seen you," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the words in the sensual style he's mastered. "Lying in our cot, naked as your nameday. I have seen you when you think I am not looking, with your hand between your legs, rubbing at your little pearl."

Sansa's panting by now, half sagged against his chest. "Oberyn!" she half-scolds, half-begs.

He only laughs. "I have seen you find your pleasure. There is a name on your lips sometimes, but it is not mine, sweet wife." Oberyn continues laughing even as Sansa's hands rain down her embarrassment on his chest.

"You—you sneak!" she cries, both outraged and _shamefully_ aroused. Whether it's from her husband's warm words and his delectable forked tongue, or whether it's from the memory he described _(stretched out on the sheets after being loved by Oberyn, reaching a hand down weakly between her thighs when she thought he was asleep, stroking at her secret place until she arches discreetly against the mattress, weeping silently, calling out for Ellaria, Ellaria, Ellaria). _

"Don't be embarrassed! I am sure she would love the sight as much as I did. How many times have I thought of you in that bed since, crying out my paramour's name, crying out my name?" Oberyn kissed her then, firm and hard without warning. "You are a magnificent creature, my sweet. Ellaria will be delighted to see you once more."

"I'm going to find my mother," Sansa grumbles almost petulantly, and marches off, leaving her husband with his full-bellied laughter and his endless amusement.

When Sansa announced she planned to travel south with her husband, it was no surprise to see the regret and disappointment on the faces of her family. Robb with his young bride, Roslin. Poor young Jeyne Poole who had been rescued from a brothel not long before Sansa left. And Brandon and Rickon, who had been discovered by her half-brother and sent south not quite a month before Sansa left the north.

Reuniting with Rickon and Bran had been… It had been almost as wonderful as it was heartbreaking. She couldn't bear it some days, the sight of Rickon's wildness, the sound of Bran's deep, unreachable silence. They were almost like two entirely separate boys at times, two brothers she had never met. Her things had already been packed and the ship sent for by the time Bran and Rickon returned to them, and so there was no time to delay. She could only spend a handful of weeks with them before she'd be forced to leave them, likely to not see them again for a very long time.

She had expected the disappointment in her family's eyes when she announced her trip south, along with the news of her impending status as _mother_, but she couldn't have ever envisioned what her mother had in store.

"I am coming with you, naturally."

"Naturally," Sansa echoed in disbelief. Oberyn had shifted subtly in his seat, and she understood his discomfort at once. He had been all but leashed and collared, her husband, forced to keep his usual…activities to a minimum, since arriving in the north. Not that his wife didn't please him, but she was very young, and he had a ferocious appetite.

Beyond that, there was the matter of Ellaria to contend with.

"I watched you go south once, and I nearly lost you forever. I fear I have truly lost your sister for true…" Catelyn trailed off, tears clouding her eyes only for a moment before she regained her strength. "I will see you to Dorne, see your child born, and then come home to Winterfell, to stay there for a long while."

"But…but mother…"

Oberyn cut her off swiftly, reaching under the table to take Sansa's hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze as he spoke. "It will be an honor to travel with you, Lady Catelyn. I will have my men begin readying your chamber aboard the ship at once."

"And mine!" Rickon had shouted, leaping up from his seat. He raced over from his end of the table to where Catelyn sat, and flung himself into her arms. "You can't leave me behind! You promised!"

"I did," she murmured heavily, gathering her youngest in her arms. He was too large to be cradled, but there had been so much taken from Sansa's family. She didn't think her mother coddling her little brother was such a terrible thing, in light of the atrocities done against them in the past.

"Then it's settled," Oberyn said smoothly, smiling widely at them all. "We leave in two weeks."

That had been over a month ago. It was a long ride to the bay Oberyn's ship had docked in, and it was a longer ride south atop the decks. She had never been in such a finely crafted boat before, and though Sansa could appreciate its build, she decided very quickly she wasn't going to travel by water ever again.

Rickon was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Dorne, but his mood was often sour for being separated by Bran. He hadn't understood why his brother wouldn't come with them on their voyage south, not even when Bran himself tried to explain.

"I can't. I need to be in the north, Rickon." Brandon had sighed regretfully, watching the look of hurt and abandonment wash over Rickon's skinny face. "You'll understand soon. The south… It's very different from here. There are no weirwood trees."

"So we'll plant some! Why are you staying in Winterfell? Robb is here! He can watch the north!"

But Rickon's objections had gone unanswered, and now, although he's terribly excited in the day, at nighttime he's become an absolute menace.

Sansa came upon the room her mother shared with Rickon most nights, when he couldn't be convinced to stay in his own bed. She knocked lightly three times.

"It's Sansa."

"Come in!" her mother's voice called, sounding a touch frazzled.

When Sansa entered, she paused momentarily at the startling sight of her mother, frazzled and flushed, trying to coax Rickon into whichever pair of breeches she'd brought for him from the north. Sansa didn't blame him for not wanting to wear them; they were made for the snow and the ice, not the warmth of the seaside, let alone the heat of Dorne. Her mother would have to relent some of her northern inclinations over the next few days, Rickon's heavy pants being the least of them.

"Please, darling. A young prince mustn't walk around with commons without his breeches on."

Rickon pushed the offered clothes away with a snarl entirely unbecoming of a prince. "No! It's too hot! Brother Oberyn doesn't care about what I wear!"

Sansa winced. Rickon rebelling in Oberyn's name certainly wouldn't convince her mother to be accepting of the Dornish way.

"Rickon," Sansa stepped in carefully, trying not to look as though she was usurping her mother's place. "What if you wore the breeches and one of the summer shirts Oberyn gifted you?"

The skinny boy folded his arms over his chest, glaring up at her suspiciously. "Maybe…"

"Sansa, he doesn't have matching pants to go _with _the shirt…"

She swallowed a sigh and fought off the urge to frown at her mother. There was grace and then there was practicality, and wearing heavy woolen fabric in the heat of the south was just madness.

"I'll see if Oberyn has any children's clothes he can find. But maybe in the meantime?"

Catelyn pursed her lips unhappily, and eyed the bright orange silk meant for Rickon, with subdued distaste.

"Very well. Now, Rickon, sweetling. Let's see to your hair, shall we?"

Her poor mother had scarcely got the words out before Rickon shrieked and stomped off into the hall, almost completely nude.

Sansa groaned under her breath. It was such a long trip…

By the time the ship under Oberyn's name reached its destination, it was so late in the night that the sun had started to rise, dark red rays reflecting on the water.

Catelyn and Rickon had opted to travel with the larger half of the traveling company to Sunspear, where they would meet up with Oberyn and Sansa. Or rather, Catelyn had opted to stay behind, and Rickon had been forced to obey.

Sansa couldn't be more grateful for the decision, as it gave herself and Oberyn the chance to make a quick getaway with a small but experienced selection of guards, and ride directly for Sunspear. She had fretted over the health of her unborn child for two days, before mentioning it quietly to her husband.

Oberyn was startled by her question of safety, and hastened to assure her.

"There is a litter waiting to take you to our home. Sweet girl, I would never risk your safety, nor the life of our child."

The carriage was plenty large for as many as three women, let alone just Sansa, and she spent the majority of the journey curled in her soft seat, leaning her head against the window, watching the dunes and strange, tall trees with thick trunks roll by.

Oberyn slowed his horse occasionally to come talk to her, but he spent most of his time at the front, leading his men. She didn't mind in the least; she had never been fond of sharing her thoughts when she felt nervous, and at the moment she was truly terrified.

Leading up to this day, Sansa had only felt giddy at the prospect of coming back to Ellaria, pregnant and full grown, with Oberyn at her side. But now she was in Dorne, all thoughts of Ellaria had vanished, and all Sansa could imagine were Oberyn's children scowling down at her with dark eyes of judgment and anger worthy of the Red Viper's name.

Fear was a useless emotion, and Sansa knew it well. There was nothing that could be done about her worries and concerns. His daughters would either accept that their father had married a woman who _wasn't _Ellaria—let alone a northerner—or they wouldn't. And all she could do herself was pray to find a way to connect to them, or else to garner their respect.

She wasn't stupid. She knew it wouldn't be easy. But at least the Sand Snakes weren't home. Oberyn spoke often and fondly of his four eldest daughters, and though she knew she'd have to meet them _eventually, _at least she didn't have to meet all eight of them tonight.

Sansa had sent little trinkets and gifts for Ellaria's girls ever since she had parted way from the Dornish woman. Ribbon and fur and other relics of the north she hoped would fascinate them. Ellaria always praised her for her kindness afterwards, but in the litter, on her way to greet them, she couldn't help feeling the woman was just being nice.

And Ellaria. Gods. She had ached for the woman's comforting embrace ever since leaving her, and the feeling had only doubled, even _tripled _in intensity, since finding out she was carrying Oberyn's ninth child (her mother had an annoying habit of saying _oh, my Sansa is carrying Oberyn's first heir!_ But Sansa didn't dare imagine this child would be more or less beloved to her husband than those who _didn't _carry the Martell name).

Ellaria wasn't the only mother she had spoken to since becoming with child, but she was the only one whose opinion she valued over even that of her mother's. Sansa wasn't raising a northern wolf, not really. It might have the blood of a Stark, but she knew the likelihood of raising a little snake instead. And she was desperate for any and all advice that Ellaria could give her, having carried and reared for little snakes of her own.

Oberyn was his own wealth of knowledge, but his was more the playful sort. Jokes about the first time Elia rolled over in Ellaria's belly. Teasing about the way she pouted when her breasts were too sensitive to be licked, kissed, or fondled at all (she was very eager to outgrow that particular phase). She was glad of his presence and his love and his kindness, but what she craved was a woman's touch.

"Sansa, we are entering Sunspear at this moment," said Oberyn, appearing at her window once more. She sat upright, smoothing out the folds of her flimsy but concealing Dornish dress. It had been made specifically for Sansa, requested by Oberyn to be more conservative for the sake of his little wife's sense of modesty.

"When we get closer to the palace, perhaps you will like to walk? Stretch your legs?"

"That sounds lovely." Sansa smiled at her husband, reaching out to give his offered hand a squeeze. "Thank you, husband."

"You are always welcome, sweet girl."

Sansa knew very quickly when they had passed the initial gates of Sunspear and entered the city itself. Commoners flocked to line either side of the road, pressing as close as they dared, keeping a respectful distance from Sansa's carriage and Oberyn's horse. A few children tried to run up, but they all of them were gently dissuaded and held back to their line.

Her carriage twisted up the streets higher and higher, ascending to the palace she would stay in for the next month or so, before retiring to the Water Gardens for the duration of her pregnancy. Oberyn's love for his city and its people was apparent, but she knew his true home would always be the Water Gardens, no matter how much he liked to roam.

She prayed to feel the same one day.

When they had left the teeming crowds behind, and entered the sector of wealthier households, Oberyn helped Sansa out of the litter, and walked alongside her. They hadn't stopped far from the palace, no more than fifteen or twenty minutes away at a slow amble—which was truthfully all she could manage for the time being.

"It's beautiful," she said, and was pleased to find she meant it. Sansa had rather thought she would have lost all love for large cities by this point, but there was no denying the beauty of Sunspear. It didn't have the cold grace of the north, but it had warmth in spades, and enough life to make her feel happy inside at the thought of being surrounded by people again.

"I'm glad it pleases you," Oberyn said with twinkling eyes. "I like it, as well."

Sansa didn't have to be his wife to know that. This was the home of his brother, after all, and if there was one person Oberyn loved in this world, it was Doran Martell.

(She couldn't begrudge him that, not even a little, because there's still no one she longs for more than her sister, her fiery little sister who she treated so ill growing up, who she spoke so cruelly to, who she fears is gone forever).

There's a crowd waiting to greet them at the top of the hill, under the shade of a large tree, each of them as unknown but familiar as the next. Like she has met them in a dream before.

Some she knows immediately. Prince Doran, in his chair. His son, Trystane, and daughter, Arianne, standing behind him. They were identical expressions of polite welcoming on their face, and Sansa doesn't believe them to be genuine in their reception _at all, _but it's enough for now that they tried.

There are a few guards Sansa was sure she'd heard of in passing—Areo Hotah, a guard whose name slipped her mind—and there are more she is sure she's never heard mention of.

And then there are four girls, dark-haired and bright-eyed from aged nine to seventeen, and there's no mistaking who their mother and father are.

The two smallest ones smiled shyly at her, the eldest outright glared. Sansa couldn't blame the girl her misgivings; had her father wed a woman close to her own age, she would have been infuriated too. The second eldest, Obella, judging from her size, watches carefully in the shadows of her big sister, holding tight to Elia Sand's hand.

And then there was a woman with black, black curls cropped just under her chin, thick, heavy curls Sansa both envied and admired. And all else seemed to float away; her mother's impending judgment, her brother's wildness, her new baby, Oberyn's _eight daughters. _It didn't matter. It didn't even exist.

There was only Ellaria, laughing and running towards them.

"My love!" Oberyn opened his arms for her, but Ellaria nearly ignored him altogether.

"Oberyn!" she said, and kissed him hard, and _fast, _before moving onto Sansa herself, excitement shining in her dark gaze.

"You're here," Sansa whispered, embracing the woman, smothering the whimper of discomfort when her breasts pressed painfully against Ellaria's, smiling at the way her belly jumped under the contact. "I've missed you."

"Oh, I have missed you, sweet Sansa." Ellaria gently stroked her red hair, kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and finally her mouth. It wasn't hard and frantic like the one she had given Oberyn. It didn't come with decades of knowing each other. It was tender and delicate, like the love they had built via nothing but letters the past two years.

Ellaria cupped her face with one hand, and reached down to stroke Sansa's softly expanded belly with the other. "You like your secrets, I see," she teased gently, and Sansa knew at once she wasn't angry with her, not in the least. Not even for withholding the news of Sansa's impending firstborn. She had hoped Ellaria would see it as the joyous surprise it was meant to be, and not a threat. With Ellaria's words, she felt relief wash over her.

A few feet away, Oberyn sighed pitifully. "What did I say?" he asked loudly, lamenting, though the words were directed to himself. "I said I would be nothing but the cock between you two. Whatever shall I do now?"

Ellaria laughed richly, while Sansa just clung to her and giggled. Oh, it was so nice. It felt _so_ nice, to hold onto her again. Back in King's Landing, when they had first met, Ellaria had become an anchor in a tumultuous world of chaos. She had arranged for the secret meetings between Sansa and Oberyn. She had arranged for Sansa to slip out more and more often, away from Joffrey's cruelty. She had even helped convince Oberyn to marry Sansa in the first place, although it took little prodding as soon as he found the scars, scrapes and bruises lining her shoulders and sides.

It took a long time trusting Oberyn after witnessing his fury that night, the night he saw testament of her time at Joffrey's hands. But Ellaria was there to coax her away from the fear, to remind Sansa that it was anger _for _her rather than with her, and Ellaria was there to help bring the two together as amicable companions. She had even inspired Sansa to pursue a more…physical relationship with the man, although Sansa had a feeling that would have happened in its own time regardless.

Sansa had spent _years _missing Ellaria, and now that she had her in her grasp, it was all she could do to smile and nod politely at all the people standing before her, staring, calculating, waiting.

Sansa tried to be welcoming and encouraging with Ellaria's daughters without coming on too strong, and with some of Ellaria's convincing, the youngest ones—Doreah and Loreza—each reached up to embrace Sansa with sweet smiles and respectful _thank yous _for the gifts Sansa had sent. Ellaria must have taught them beforehand, rehearsed with them the appropriate response to meeting their father's wife.

The elder two remained distant but, thankfully, cordial. Elia, who Sansa had known would be the hardest to win over, said nothing but mumbled a barely-audible _Princess Sansa, _to which Sansa quickly corrected to _Sansa. _Just Sansa. Nothing more.

Elia didn't look convinced in the least about her father's new wife, but she let the greeting go without saying a word otherwise.

Oberyn kissed his daughters quickly, and then pulled Sansa's hand, guiding her towards his elder brother. Doran sat watching Sansa with impassive eyes, and Sansa knew better than to think his feelings towards her to be as unbiased as they appear. But he did, after all, allow Oberyn to wed her and sneak her out from the Lannister's nose, despite the risk and aware of the strain it would put on the already complicated relationship Dorne and the Iron Throne shared. And he did send a small but useful fleet north via ships, at great risk to himself and his people. Had the ships not reached their port in the north, it would have meant a loss for the Dornish, but also a gain for the Westerlands. And that was something neither far north nor far south could endure.

"Sansa," Oberyn held her hand in the crook of his arm, looking down at her with all the unguarded affection in the world. "This is my brother, Prince Doran of House Nymeros Martell. Brother, my wife. Princess Sansa of House Stark."

"Prince Doran," Sansa greeted, and curtsied her most elegant, regal curtsey. When she rose after a respectful pause, the man in question had an odd, wry smile on his face.

"Princess Sansa of House _Martell, _now. Is it not, brother?"

With a cautious smile Oberyn glanced at Sansa, as though to make sure such a thing was suitable with her.

"It is," said Sansa, praying he would not take offense to her speaking in Oberyn's place. Her husband knew of her reluctance to remove herself from her family's name. She wore grey and black whenever she could, and though the bright sunny colors of Dorne looked radiant on her, Sansa rarely chose them over her father's name.

"You must call me Doran, Princess. As the woman to wrangle my defiant little brother into marriage, I will accept nothing less."

Sansa knew, as Doran doubtlessly did as well, that most of that praise was owed to Ellaria, for forcing them to meet in the first place, but she bowed her head gracefully and accepted the accolade without a word.

"If you are Doran, then I must be Sansa."

"Indeed." He smiled at her, though it rather pinched his face. The prince of Dorne then gestured behind him, to where a handsome young man and a very beautiful woman stood on his either side.

"My daughter, Arianne, and my son, Trystane."

Arianne's beauty was the sort that put all others to shame. Curvaceous, with dark lashes and a secretive, curling smile, she was the sort of woman that occupied every man's dream. She was also past her twentieth nameday and yet unwed, a sort of sacrilege as far as Sansa had been taught.

"A pleasure to meet you, Aunt." Arianne took Sansa's hand in hers, glancing without any discretion at the bulge of her belly. "And my soon to be cousin, I presume?"

With a nod and a forced smile, lightly covering her stomach with her free hand. Trystane bowed and murmured his pleasure to her, but Sansa didn't hear their words. She hadn't understood, hadn't truly taken to heart, exactly how venomous Oberyn's family would be until meeting them.

She felt surrounded. She felt isolated. _She felt outnumbered._

"It has been a long ride, and I fear my wife could use some time to rest before supper. Ellaria?"

Doran acquiesced without complaint. Behind her, Sansa could see Oberyn's hand gesture to herself, and before she knew it her husband's paramour had taken her arm lovingly in her own, and began marching them in the direction of the palace, presumably to her quarters.

Oberyn came to take Sansa's other arm.

"Breathe," he reminded her quietly. "Breathe, Sansa. I am here."

Ellaria gripped her hand tightly, a quiet sort of reassurance Sansa felt as strongly as Oberyn's words.

"You do not know it yet, but you _are_ surrounded by family," Oberyn continued with gentle urgency to his voice. They left their welcoming party at the gates where they stood, lingering for reasons Sansa didn't know and didn't care to know. With every step away from their collectively cunning gaze, Sansa felt as though she could breathe again.

"It will take time," Ellaria spoke at length, whether to Oberyn or Sansa, she wasn't sure. But she nodded jerkily just to be safe.

"Of course," whispered Sansa. She cleared her throat, and spoke louder, more cool than before. "Of course. It was a bit too much excitement for me, I'm afraid."

Just then one of the tiny snakes, Doreah, if she wasn't mistaken, poked her head between Sansa's and Ellaria's joined hips. Her curious, worried little face was sweeter than any smile Sansa had received thus far, for it was truly honest. She gently curled her fingers around two of Sansa's and tugged at it for attention.

"Are you alright, Sansa?"

"I am. Thank you…Doreah?" The girl smiled at her in reply. Sansa reached out hesitantly and touched a stray black curl, brushing it from her forehead. "_Thank_ _you_, Doreah. I fear I am unused to the heat. Perhaps you can teach me the ways you stay cool here?"

She brightened considerably. "Ok!"

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, walking between her two favored companions.

If she could win over one Sand snake, perhaps the other seven would follow in time.

Or that's what Sansa told herself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for all the support for the last chapter! I hope to have the next one up sooner, sorry for the wait! This is my first full-on smut scene, btw, so if y'all would please be kind, I'd be really appreciative! Thanks again, take care! Oh, and I own nothing. **

* * *

The walk from the entrance of Sunspear palace to the chamber set up for Sansa was not overly long, and passed by quickly with the company of Ellaria and Oberyn to keep her busy. Before she knew it, they had entered a beautiful room with a large bed, wide, open windows, and a chest doubtlessly half full of Dornish dresses, the other half to be filled with her clothes she'd brought with her.

Sansa reclined on her bed under Ellaria's firm suggestion, meant with little hidden meaning. At the foot of the bed, Oberyn and Ellaria kissed quickly, his hand curled familiarly over her wrist, and let it go carefully, as each took a seat. How they had kept their hands off one another for this long, Sansa had no idea. She could scarcely manage it herself; it was only shyness and lack of experience which prevented her from curling herself in Ellaria's arms and kissing her wide lips, her long neck, the peak of each dark breast…

She had never hungered for a woman before, but there were no two ways about it; Sansa _wanted _her. She wanted her, and she wanted her so greatly she couldn't feel shame for it.

But she was also tired, and so Sansa put up with their gentle ministrations without complaint.

"What would you like, my lovely girl?" Ellaria stroked Sansa's jaw tenderly. "We can eat, tour the palace, have a bath. Anything you wish." She kissed Sansa's cheek, lingering only for a moment.

Oberyn was silent in his agreement, watching his two lovers with dark, considering eyes. Normally such intent would have unsettled Sansa, but from Oberyn she felt nothing but warmth.

Sansa swallowed once to wet her mouth, and accepted the cup of water offered to her.

"I'm sorry about all this. I… This is the first you have seen one another as well." Sansa gestured between the two of them, a bit helpless. "If you wish to…" Her sentence hung in the air, waiting to finish itself, but the words wouldn't come out.

But they both smiled, aware of her implications and amused at her concern.

"I can hold off fucking my paramour a little while longer, I should think," said Oberyn wryly. "Long enough to make sure you are well, certainly." They reclined on Sansa's bed, Sansa tucked against the large feather pillows, Ellaria sprawled with casual elegance against her calves. And Oberyn on the other side of her legs, with his back against the pillar at the foot of the bed, his feet stretched towards her.

"_I_ am glad to have you _both _home." Ellaria reached out and caressed Sansa's belly, her hand softer than Sansa thought possible. "I have missed holding a babe of Oberyn's…" Sudden uncertainty overtook her face. "You will let me, won't you?"

"Of course!" The thought to deny Ellaria the chance to hold her son or daughter hadn't so much as crossed her mind. She reached out and took Ellaria's hand in her own, holding it tight. "Of _course_ you can! I've been so eager to get to you, to see you and…and talk to you about…" Sansa waved her hand at the bulge protruding from her waist.

"Well, you can ask me anything you like. I have done it four times, and lived to tell the tale." Ellaria smiled coyly. "I am something of an expert."

Sansa returned the smile with some embarrassment. "Oberyn has been helping where he can."

The older woman nodded in understanding. "Your husband has very gentle hands. They know _exactly _where to rub to make backaches go away." She moaned in memory of her times carrying her girls, of Oberyn's hands soothing the pain away. Sansa nodded in fervent agreement.

"Yes, he can be quite useful." Playfully, she reached out and patted the foot of his closest to her in gentle condescension. "I shall keep him a little longer, I suppose."

Oberyn rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I am the prince of Dorne, and I have been reduced to…backache-soother. Giver of seed."

Ellaria burst out laughing. "You have eight bastard daughters, and this is the first you've noticed your most notable talents? For shame, Oberyn!"

Presumably to cease her laughter at his expense, and with a mighty growl, he leaned over Sansa's ankles and kissed Ellaria firmly on the mouth, winding his fingers deep into her hair. Sansa watched with her heart pounding as Oberyn's tongue slid swiftly into Ellaria's mouth, flicked back deep into the cavity of her mouth. She could almost feel him against her own tongue, the vivid memory of his kiss just this morning drifting in her mind. The warmth of their two bodies seeped through the sheets tossed over Sansa's legs, and nearly scalded her with their ferocity. They burned brightly, and not for the first time Sansa longed to burn with them.

Slowly, as though reading her mind (although her loud breathing was likely a good clue) Oberyn's nimble fingers reached out and crept over to Sansa's thigh, a five-fingered spider, and it began to climb, sliding up her leg with deliberation. Sansa could hear her own breath, could feel her heart pounding in her throat, in her chest, even between her legs…

Her husband cracked open one eye and smiled faintly, lips still locked against Ellaria's, while his fingers had begun to massage the taught muscle of her thighs, coaxing them to soften and relax. He pulled free from Ellaria's mouth with a wet pop_. _Noses touching, foreheads bent close, Oberyn flashed his teeth at his paramour, almost feral.

"I think our little wolf would like to join in," he mused, his eyes darting over to Sansa's slack-jawed expression. In one swift pull, he yanked the flimsy sheet hiding her legs down to the foot of the bed, revealing the sight of her bare skin from where her dress had ridden up high on her thighs. "What do you think, El?"

She hummed deeply, the pair of them unfurled alongside Sansa, Oberyn draped atop Ellaria and at ease with the world.

Oberyn clucked his tongue thoughtfully at her, taunting Sansa. "But then, perhaps she is too tired to partake."

"Hmm…. She should partake as often as she can _now. _Gods know how big she will be in a few months." Ellaria nodded to herself knowingly. She spoke to Oberyn. "Does our lady wish to partake?"

Oberyn drew himself back to his knees, with all the solemnity of a man intent on discovering the meaning of life and death. "I shall find out."

And before Sansa could protest—not that she wished to—he slid one broad hand down between her softened thighs, pressing the silk robe up to her belly. Sansa's knees bent slightly and parted, her legs rolled away from one another. She was trembling all over in anticipation, in desire, in a bit of fear. But it was a good fear. It was fear of the unknown, the as-of-yet unexperienced.

She had never had the chance to do more than kiss and cuddle Ellaria, even after she had wed Oberyn. It was all so new to her, and neither had pushed her for more than she was ready. Oberyn might have bedded her the one time after their wedding, but it was only at her insistence, and after long hours of talking and relaxing under his watchful, caring eye.

Ellaria was a new wonder just on her own, but Ellaria-and-Oberyn were a foreign world unto themselves. She couldn't have fathomed touching them, kissing them, watching them kiss one another…

Her heart thudded furiously as Oberyn's fingers slithered into her slick skin with no trouble whatsoever, the look on his face both mischievous and entranced.

"Oh!" he chuckled lowly, and nodded emphatically at Ellaria. "_Yes_. She wishes to partake."

And then Sansa could bear it no more. With greedy hands, she reached for Ellaria, who was already rolling towards her. Eager and unafraid, Sansa kissed her. She kissed her and kissed her, and could have wept at the sweetness she found there.

Ellaria and Oberyn were similar in many ways, but they were different in this. Oberyn's lips didn't know how to behave. They nipped. They bit. They tugged and pursed and scraped, and _gods!_ Sansa loved every second of it. It was a balance she had never heard of before, this business of pleasure and pain, and couldn't be sure whether she simply enjoyed the sensation of her neck being nibbled upon, or the fact Oberyn Martell was the one sampling her skin (likely the latter).

Ellaria's lips were so different. Hers were gentle. Soft. They lapped. They caressed. They grazed and brushed and licked and teased and whispered. There was something heartbreakingly kind in Ellaria Sand's kisses that made Sansa long to crawl inside her and stay there forever.

Her lips pressed sensually to Sansa's, the hand not propping her up roving freely over Sansa's body. And Oberyn's fingers kept stroking her at a rising pace, coaxing the tiny sounds from Sansa's lips she was often too shy to utter. Mewls and whimpers, gasps and yelps. He caressed them out of her, as one might stroke the chin of a kitten into purring.

Within the walls of this room, there was no room for embarrassment between the three of them, no matter what Sansa said or did.

After a time, Ellaria stood up and slipped out of her dress in hurried movements, as though she couldn't wait to crawl back into bed. Even after carrying four children, her soft, fleshy, bare body was a sight to behold, and it was one Sansa yearned for freely, and openly. His finger crooked inside her, Oberyn whistled leeringly at his paramour; Sansa used her foot to nudge him sharply, grinning at his surprised indignation.

She crawled to Sansa, knees tucked under her, and leaned sideways into her body when Sansa's arms reached up and pulled, silently urging her closer for an embrace that was long overdue.

"Sansa," she sighed, and it was the most perfect, most lovely her name had ever sounded. Ellaria laid there for some time in Sansa's arms, while Oberyn's fingers slipped and slid wetly over Sansa's pulsing little pearl. In no time at all, Sansa's brow was furrowed, her eyes shut tight, and her voice escalating in volume and desperation.

"That's it," Ellaria whispered, fondling one of her sensitive teats, watching her fall apart with hooded eyes. "_That's_ it…."

When Sansa felt like she could think once more, she clutched desperately at Ellaria, while Oberyn gloated in his triumph from her knees.

"Come here," Sansa whispered, and urged her to come sit upright on her knees, close enough so that Sansa could see the tiny dark hairs that trailed Ellaria's belly, finer and thinner than the coarse hairs of Oberyn's stomach. Ellaria's breasts, bare and mere inches away from Sansa's face, were firm to the touch, her full, dark nipples pebbled with little convincing.

Ellaria moaned loudly, shamelessly, with the sort of confidence of a woman well-loved and well-fucked. Sansa hadn't put her mouth to Oberyn's nipples so often, though the few times she had tried, he had reacted favorably. But it was different with a woman's breasts. Sansa's jaw stretched and closed, until she found the right movement of a suckling babe, and cupped the other breast, rolling the teat with her curved palm and fingers squeezed together.

"Oh! Oh, Sansa!" Ellaria gasped, her chest heaving so greatly that her lips nearly lost their grip a time or two. Oberyn got off the bed and came to kneel behind Ellaria, bending his forehead to her shoulder, sucking at the pulse point of her neck.

Above her bent head, mouth working eagerly over Ellaria's motherly figure, Sansa felt the exact moment in which Oberyn pressed into his lover, chest to back, his mouth attacking her neck in firm, guttural kisses and nips. She dared to peek up at them, pulled away long enough to see Ellaria's head thrown back against his shoulder, and braced her hands on Ellaria's thighs to help hold her steady as Oberyn fucked her relentlessly.

She fell apart in a whirlwind of chaos, and Sansa watched it all unfold in a blissful state of delirium, sunk back into her pillows. Oberyn had one hand cupping the cage of her ribs, while the other gripped the hook of her pelvis, the bone that linked belly to thigh.

It was over entirely too soon, and finished with the pair of them crying out almost as one, Oberyn only seconds behind his woman.

Sansa shuffled over when Ellaria dropped onto the bed, too happy to let the older woman tuck her into her body, hugging her close. And somewhere behind Ellaria, Oberyn slid into bed as well, yawning loudly, kicking the remainders of his clothes to the ground in a heap.

Ellaria kissed Sansa's jaw, warm and wet. "You should sleep," she murmured into the shell of Sansa's ear, her hot breath tickling like a feather tip. "Your mother will be here sometime in the morning, I suspect. She will want to see you rested and well."

_You should all sleep, _Sansa thought tiredly, dread bubbling in her belly at the thought of Catelyn Stark meeting Ellaria Sand at last. _We will all need our rest._

* * *

After being parted from her mother for so long, Sansa was certain there would never come a time when the prospect of seeing her lady mother filled her with dread. But there was no mistaking the doubt she swam in that morning, sharing a small breakfast with Ellaria and Oberyn in his solar.

The two lovers were happy as ever to be reunited, and it pleased Sansa to see them acting so foolishly young and green. Oberyn would pluck a fat red strawberry from the glass dish on his table, and teasingly run it along the shape of Ellaria's lips as she waited, mouth open softly, half-glaring, half-panting after him.

Had Sansa not been so distracted at the prospect of her mother's rapidly encroaching arrival, she would have found the scene either very funny or very arousing, she was not sure which.

But such as it was, all she could see in her mind was her dear mother's sour gaze when she spies Ellaria Sand for the first time, this perceived threat whom Sansa has always, _always_ loved.

_I could tell her, _Sansa thinks to herself, silently plotting the best route to take. She won't stand to see Ellaria shamed in her own home of all places, and neither will Oberyn. But she also aches at the thought of sending her mother away, all for the sake of her fierce defense over Sansa's rights as a wife. Oberyn keeping another lady, let alone a natural born child, was not something Catelyn thought her daughter should have to accept.

But Sansa wanted Ellaria, as much as she wanted Oberyn really, and she had nearly convinced herself that telling her mother such would actually help alleviate the tension.

_Nearly_.

For there was still a fear, a very much well-founded fear, that Catelyn Stark would only hate Ellaria more if Sansa told her the truth to their marriage, to the equality in their affection for one another. There's no need for secrecy in Dorne, where one may love as deeply and freely as they pleased, no matter their station or sex. But the rest of Westeros—and indeed the Riverlands, where her mother hailed from—was another matter altogether.

It would be trading one sin for another, in Catelyn's eyes, and the only difference would be who received the blame. Sansa could remain the sweet daughter in her mother's eyes if she so wished. She could say nothing, let Oberyn take the fall for his mistress' presence, say nothing in regards to her love for another _woman, _and be forever seen as a tragedy.

Or she could speak out.

If she were brave, Sansa knew she would speak up. It would make Ellaria and Oberyn's lives much easier if her mother knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sansa _wanted _to be with them both. It wouldn't fix anything, by any means, but it would help _them_ a great deal.

It could also very possibly ruin her relationship with her mother, something which had only been largely healed in the last year or so. Their time apart had hurt them both, and it had taken so many nights, so many quiet conversations by the light of a dying fire, before she felt as though they were truly close once more.

Could she do it? Could she sacrifice the respect and sympathy her mother felt for her in order to spare the man and woman she loved so well? Sansa startled when a tiny foot pressed her belly from the inside-out.

And that was another thought. Could she stand so much tension in her condition, carrying a child she already loved more than the air she breathed? She feared what might happen if she lost the child. Fingers might be pointed—at herself, at her mother, at her lovers… Or what if her mother was so disgusted and outraged that she left her alone in Dorne? To go through childbirth and motherhood for the first time without the comfort of her own mother's wisdom…

Her chest ached fiercely at the thought.

"Sansa?"

She blinked up at them, sitting on the divan with an apple half-raised to her lips. They were frowning again, staring at her worriedly.

"You look upset," Oberyn said carefully, watching her from across the table. He set down the berry he'd been holding, laying his palm down over Ellaria's fingertips.

"If you are worried for you mother and brother, don't be. My men won't let a thing happen to them. I swear it."

"It is not their safety I worry over," whispered Sansa, glancing out the open window at the new sun rising over the city's edge. "It is their…their reaction."

Neither said anything for a long time after that, and too afraid to look at their expressions herself, Sansa began to fear she'd offended them.

_They know I'm a coward, _she thinks, and starts weeping without any warning whatsoever.

The pair stride around the table to her—comforting her once more—and each are careful to touch her, to get a hand on her. Ellaria rubs her back. Oberyn strokes her cheek, wipes the tears there.

It is more than she deserves.

"I don't… I…I love my mother, but…I'm so s-scared," she hiccups, an embarrassingly loud gulp of noise. She starts making circles on her belly, a habit she's taken to as of late, and the kicking inside her slowly abates.

"What are you scared for?" Oberyn's thumbs rub the salty tears away, peering into her face with concern. "No one will harm your mother. I give you my word on that."

"But she…she's… The rest of Westeros isn't so accepting as Dorne…"

Ellaria chuckled mirthlessly. "Sweet Sansa, you think I don't know this? I spent a few scant weeks in King's Landing, and even I knew such things. I'm a big girl," she teased, and it makes Sansa cry more. "I can handle whatever your mother throws my way. No more tears, now. You don't want to worry the little one."

Sansa flung her arms around the woman and held her tight, weeping into her neck for saying the _precisely _right thing.

"I love you," she whispered over and over, pulling back to kiss her soundly on the lips. Ellaria smiled at her enthusiasm, and pressed two more kisses to her cheeks.

"I love you, too, sweet Sansa. Always."

A guard knocked on the door at that moment, breaking the three out of the warm trance they'd settled in. "Prince Oberyn… Lady Catelyn and Prince Rickon's scouts have arrived. They will be here shortly."

Oberyn's face smoothed into his usual mask of bemusement and wicked humor. "We'll be out momentarily." He extended his arm to first his wife, then his lover. "Shall we?"

Sansa sucked in a deep breath, finding his arm and gripping him for strength, for comfort, for safety. She had never been let down by him so far; if he gave his word all would be well, she saw no reason to think he would start lying today.

"We shall. Let's go greet my mother."

* * *

**I nearly forgot! If you're desperate for Sansa/Oberyn fics and you haven't been over to AO3, I highly recommend checking it out, if only to read ANY of Silberias' fics. You won't regret it, she's the reason I started writing Sanbyria in the first place. For Fear Tonight Is All is one of the best I've ever read, and I've been reading fanfiction for, like, ten years. Plus, the format there is so much easier than ... (shh, don't tell the staff I said that!) Thanks again, ciao for now!**


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